The Last Wicked Scoundrel

by Lorraine Heath

  She could hardly fathom that she’d given him a key to the residence, that she was considering allowing him into her bed. But she loved the way he made her feel: precious, treasured. They’d not spoken of love or a future, but it hardly mattered. She just needed something to erase the memories of what happened the last time a man had taken her in this bed. She squeezed her eyes shut. No, not this bed. She’d had that one carted away, had purchased a new one to replace it. Only she had ever slept in it. Not entirely true. Her lips curled up. Whit had joined her a time or two when he had a bad dream. But he was older now, beginning to show a preference for not being coddled by his mother.

  Her eyelids began growing heavy. William would return when he could, and she was anticipating it as she’d not anticipated anything in a good long while. He would open the door, slip beneath the sheets, take her into his arms—

  The silk slid over her body as his hands caressed her, the silk no barrier to the heat of his touch. He nuzzled her neck. “I returned as soon as I could.”

  She didn’t want words, didn’t need them. All she wanted were the marvelous sensations that he seemed able to elicit with so little effort. She was floating on a cloud of pleasure, his hands and mouth taking her to places where she’d never traveled. Heat scorched her, inside and out. She wanted to touch him, to feel his skin, but she seemed unable to grasp anything of substance. He was like shadows, weaving around her—

  She inhaled his sandalwood scent, but her lungs froze, her nose stung. Not sandalwood. Caraway. Cloying. Suffocating.

  His hands closed around her throat. She couldn’t breathe. He was weighing her down, taking her into the depths of hell. She fought, she kicked, she screamed a silent scream that was somehow more terrifying. She was going to die! He was going to—

  Winnie awoke with a jolt, breathing heavily, her body trembling. She scrambled back until she was sitting against the headboard. Most of the room was ensconced in wavering shadows that danced around the corners and over the ceiling. The lamp was no longer burning, but there was a fire in the hearth. She didn’t remember there being a fire when she went to sleep.

  The room was chilled and damp. The windows were open, the draperies pulled aside, and the curtains of lighter fabric blowing in the breeze as rain pattered against the floor. Had William returned and opened them? Then where was he?

  And why was the caraway scent stronger now? She was trembling, her silk nightdress clinging to her dampened skin. She had to get hold of herself. Some warm milk, some warm milk would help.

  She reached for the lamp to relight it and froze.

  There, resting on the corner of the bedside table were two rings—ducal rings—that had belonged to her husband. She’d left them in a safe at the ancestral estate, to be given to Whit when he was older and his fingers large enough to accommodate them.

  So how the devil had they ended up there?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  * * *

  With the rain pelting his hat and coat, Graves stood outside Winnie’s residence. It was half past four in the morning. She was no doubt asleep by now. If he unlocked that door, walked into her residence, into her bedchamber, everything would change. There would be no going back.

  As much as he wanted her, he didn’t want her under these circumstances. He hadn’t expected his actions toward her to result in her welcoming him so quickly and swiftly. While his feelings for her might be honest, his reasons for pursuing her at the moment were not.

  He should turn about and go home. But he was the only one with the ability to stay near enough to her to protect them all. Staying close to her would certainly prove no hardship—at least not until she was no longer content with only the small part he would offer.

  Do no harm. That was the mantra of his profession, but in her case he had failed to heed it, which was why he was now standing in the blasted rain arguing with himself. He didn’t have to wake her. He could just sit in a chair and watch her.

  That seemed the way to go. To torment himself further by being near enough to touch her, but refraining. That would definitely qualify him for sainthood.

  He marched up the steps, slipped the key into the lock, let himself in, and locked the door behind him. Within the foyer, all was silent, hushed. A lamp had been left to burn on a table. He had far too many nights where lamps were left to burn for him as he sat vigil, striving to ward off death, but it snuck by him when it was good and ready. Alone in his residence, he mourned the loss of every patient while he analyzed every step of the treatment, striving to understand why sometimes things worked and sometimes they didn’t. There was always more to learn, so much more to learn.

  If he didn’t go up those grand sweeping stairs, if they were correct about the danger, if something happened to her, he would analyze this night until the what-ifs drove him mad.

  Leaving his damp hat and coat on a rack in the foyer, he grabbed the lamp and started up the stairs. He fought to tamp down the anticipation building with each step. He was only going to watch her sleep, nothing more. But he could certainly take pleasure in that.

  Three years before, he’d been awoken in the dead of night to come here. Outside her door, he came to a stop as the images assailed him: her battered face, her badly beaten body. He’d never seen anyone covered in so many bruises, and he’d dealt with survivors of a train wreck. He flattened his palm against the door. Unlike Claybourne and Jack, he’d never had a penchant for violence, but that night, he thought if her husband had stepped into the room, he might have very well killed him. That a man could willingly inflict so much harm on another human being, on a woman, on his wife—Graves was neither innocent nor naive but sometimes he did not understand the minds of men.

  Quietly he opened the door. A weak fire struggling to remain relevant chased shadows around the room. His heart lurched at the sight of the rumpled, but empty bed. Quickly he stepped farther into the room. Rain was coming in through the open windows, pooling on the floor. Then he spotted her huddled in a corner, shivering uncontrollably. He rushed across the room and crouched before her. “Winnie, sweetheart?”

  She lifted a dazed gaze to his.

  Cautiously he cradled her face in his palm. “Did you have a bad dream?”

  Jerkily she shook her head and lifted a shaking hand, pointing with one finger. “I don’t . . . know . . . how they got here.”

  Twisting around, he studied the bed where she indicated. “What precisely?”

  “On the table.”

  Unfolding his body, he strode over to the bedside table. His gut clenched as he picked up the two rings. He knew them well. He’d placed them on a pauper’s fingers. Inwardly, he cursed harshly, but outwardly he gave no sign of his alarm or trepidation. He halfway hoped the blighter was still in the residence. If they crossed paths, Graves would be digging a grave before the night was out.

  But when he turned back to Winnie, he knew he couldn’t leave her, not like this. Nor could he tell her the truth of it. At that moment she was all that mattered. After slipping the rings into his trousers’ pocket, he walked back over to her. “It’s going to be all right.”

  Lifting her in his arms, he carried her over to the bed, gently laid her down, and drew the covers over her. “Would you like me to close the windows?”

  She nodded, and he marched over to them, closing one and then the other. He took a moment to peer through them. Are you out there, you bastard?

  With quickness, he drew the draperies closed. Aware of her gaze following him, he went into the bathing room, snatched up some linens, and returned to spread them over the floor beneath the windows so they could soak up the water.

  As he neared the bed, he tore off his jacket, waistcoat, and cravat and tossed them on a nearby chair. After pulling off his shoes, he sat on the edge of the bed. “Winnie, you appear to be in shock. You need to be warmed. I’m going to slip beneath the covers and hold you. That’s all, just hold you. All right?”

  Her eyes wide and circular, she nodded. “I’m going m
ad.”

  “No, sweetheart, there’s an explanation for all this,” he murmured as he worked his way between the sheets and drew her near, briskly rubbing his hands up and down her back, striving to generate enough heat to stop her trembling. Her teeth were chattering. He feared he might have to wake the servants to have a warm bath prepared for her. Although he suspected she wouldn’t want the servants to see her like this. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Snuggling up against him, she burrowed her nose into the crook of his shoulder. “I was dreaming, and suddenly I began to feel as though a great weight was pressing on me and I was suffocating. I could smell Avendale as though he were wafting through the room. I don’t recall opening the windows or building the fire. Or the rings. How did they come to be here? They were locked up safe at the family estate. Could I be doing these things in my sleep?”

  At least she’d stopped trembling, he was grateful for that. He slowed his hands into a gentle caress. “It’s possible I suppose. I once had a patient who would wake up in the middle of the night to find himself standing in the stables with no recollection of how he came to be there.”

  She tilted her head up to hold his gaze. “Truly?”

  He gave her a comforting smile. “Truly. He also was stark naked. Apparently, he removed his nightclothes before he began his trek.”

  She released a little huff that was almost a laugh. “Were you able to cure him?”

  “No, I couldn’t determine the cause. It wasn’t physical and there’s a good deal I don’t know about the mind.”

  “Do I belong in Bedlam, do you think?”

  “No, absolutely not,” he said with conviction.

  She nestled her face back against his chest. “Is everything all right with the queen?”

  “Yes. She ate something that upset her digestion.”

  “She’s fortunate to have you.”

  He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Go to sleep now. I’ll hold the monsters and nightmares at bay.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  He was acutely aware of her relaxing against him, her breathing slowing.

  “I’ve never slept with a man in my bed before,” she said in a low voice, as though she feared disturbing him. “I rather like it. Avendale always left right afterward.”

  Naturally. The man didn’t appreciate what he once possessed. “I don’t.”

  “I suspected that about you.” He thought he could feel a blush warming her skin beneath his hands. “You’re always so kind.”

  Her words were like a lash to his heart. If he were kind he would tell her everything right now and end her torment, only others were involved, those with whom he’d grown up, those who had saved his neck on more than one occasion. Claybourne especially. If not for him, Graves would no doubt still be on the streets or worse, dead. “Try to sleep.”

  He was acutely aware of the length of her body pressed against his. One of her legs was wedged between his and he fought not to consider that her leg was bare which meant that her gown was hiked up. How far up, he couldn’t tell. At his side, her hand flinched, unfurled. Her breathing went soft, softer.

  He kept his arms around her, holding her close, hoping that with his presence he could hold her fears at bay.

  Winnie awoke to find William raised up on an elbow, watching her. The fire had long since gone out. With the draperies drawn, no sunlight was entering the room. The only light came from the soft glow of the lamp that he’d brought into the room with him the night before.

  She wasn’t yet ready to speak, to disturb his study of her, especially as she wanted to take a few moments to enjoy the sight of him. Although his hair was blond, he had the longest, blackest eyelashes she’d ever seen. Unlike hers, his nose was straight and perfect, narrow, patrician. His chin was narrow, sharp, with the tiniest dent in the center of it. His cheekbones were high, hollowed. The bristles along his jaw were darker than she’d expected them to be. She had an insane thought that she would very much like to shave him, feel and hear the scrape of the razor over his skin.

  She thought of doing things with him that she never thought of doing with Avendale. William appealed to her in ways that Avendale never had. She had cared for Avendale, had believed when she accepted his offer of marriage that she loved him, but now she could not help but wonder if perhaps she had been too young to truly recognize love, if perhaps she had simply been in love with the notion of love, or perhaps marriage. It was what girls of her station strived to accomplish: a good marriage. Or maybe he had managed to beat out her affections toward him until no remnants of her original feelings for him remained, and so she could no longer remember exactly how she had felt toward him.

  “Did you sleep?” she asked William.

  “I promised to keep watch,” he said with a small smile and a hoarse voice that stirred something deep inside her. It implied secret trysts. “Besides, I don’t need much sleep, and I rarely go an entire night without someone knocking on my door.”

  “I can’t help but feel I’ve become quite the nuisance.”

  “You haven’t. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.” He tucked his finger beneath her chin and stroked her cheek with his thumb. “Are you feeling a bit more settled?”

  “Somewhat. I’m quite embarrassed with the spectacle I made of myself last night.”

  “You have nothing for which to be embarrassed. A nightmare can be upsetting enough without the strange occurrences you’re experiencing.”

  “I just don’t understand what’s happening.”

  “I think someone is striving to drive you mad.”

  “But who and for what purpose?”

  Turning his attention to the braid draped over her shoulder, he brushed his fingers through the loose strands at the end, seemingly mesmerized by the movements. “That I don’t know, but I’m wondering if it wouldn’t be wiser for you and your son to move into my residence.” He shifted his solemn gaze back to hers. “Just for a few days.”

  She had felt so welcomed in his home, so at ease. It was there that she had come to realize the horror that her life had truly become. As she gained her strength, he allowed her to determine the menu for the meals. He never found fault with her selections. He never criticized if she spent her mornings reading or composing letters. For the first time in her life, the hours of the day became hers to do with as she pleased. He had given her glimpses of a life that didn’t encompass fear.

  “I truly, truly appreciate the offer, but I’ll not be chased out of my own home. I don’t think Whit is in any danger. His governess hasn’t reported any strange goings on. All that is happening just seems directed at me. Perhaps I do have a disgruntled servant. I’ll speak with Thatcher, have him watch them a bit more closely.”

  “I admire your resolve.” He traced the curve of her cheek. “But I don’t think you’ve quite recovered from last night’s misadventure. I have a morning ritual that I don’t always get to indulge in but I think it would be just the thing to chase the last of the shadows from your eyes.”

  He was looking at her so intently, as though he were memorizing every line and curve of her features, every bump and every scar. His intensity had all sorts of notions racing through her mind, notions no proper lady should entertain. Morning rituals that included kissing and touching, hands on her thighs, her stomach, her breasts. She wasn’t certain she was quite ready for that, but she heard herself asking, “What sort of ritual?”

  “Rowing.”

  She blinked in surprise. Was that what the lower classes called it? She supposed she could see that, but not quite. And he might have once been ensconced among the dregs of society, but he had risen above that to a respected—and, in her mind at least—an exalted position. Surely he no longer used such crude references. She licked her lips. “What exactly does it entail?”

  “A boat, oars, the Thames.”

  “Oh, you mean actual rowing?”

  With a grin, he skimmed his finger along the bridge of her nose.
“What did you think I was alluding to?”

  She was going to embarrass herself by admitting the truth. “Exactly what you said.” She was intrigued. “You truly go rowing in the morning?”

  “Whenever I can before breakfast.”

  Glancing over at the clock, she realized it was much earlier than she thought. “It must still be dark out.”

  “It won’t be by the time we get there. Come with me. I think you’ll find it’s a refreshing way to begin the day.”

  She thought doing anything with him would be a lovely way to start the day. “Yes, all right.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  * * *

  With her pelisse folded closely around her, Winnie sat in the rowboat and watched in fascination as William worked the oars in a steady rhythm that caused the boat to glide smoothly over the water. She had looked in on Whit before she left, and he’d been sleeping soundly. On Winnie’s orders the day before, the governess had left the door to her apartments open so she could hear Whit if anything was amiss. Not that anything seemed to be. The fragrance of caraway seeds had faded, and she was questioning whether or not it had ever been there.

  Forcing the worries from her mind, she concentrated on enjoying her outing. Wisps of light fog along the bank were beginning to burn off as the sky lightened from black to gray. The scent of last night’s rain was still heavy on the air.

  Once she was settled in the boat, William removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, took the oars in hand, and set off. No leisurely rowing. His forearms revealed corded muscles, and she understood now the breadth of his shoulders, the firmness of his chest.